... And the meal went by in silence!
Food, it is reported, sends out a powerful message to those who partake of it. It says, “You’re important to me,” “I care about you enough to cook for you.”
Somehow, in our childhood home, we seemed to be aware of that because we were appreciative of every meal — and at all those in-between times as well. It could have been sheer instinct that made us respond with shining eyes and generous words. It could have been utter selfishness too: Aimed at spurring Mother on to the preparation of the next meal. It could even have been that because we participated in the effort from a pretty young age, we valued it more.
Imagine my surprise then, when I entered a new family all those decades ago, and discovered that they ate without comment — and then went about their normal routine without any attempt to give the cook a feeling that his/her efforts had not been in vain.
New to an independent kitchen, still floundering and taking much more time than I should to produce a meal, I found the lack of appreciation a huge lapse. ‘What? They just piled their plates, gulped it all down — and were off? Did they notice that little extra tang? Was it to their liking?’
My questions — at that time very hesitant — were met with laughter. “We ate, didn’t we?” I was told. “We don’t go around saying, ‘delicious’, ‘tasty’ and analysing what went into it ...”
The shock had barely worn off before it was time to prepare the next meal. Again I went at it with gusto, sure that some words of praise would be forthcoming. I had, after all, been slogging it out alone in the kitchen while the rest of the family laughed and shared memories and played with the younger ones in the drawing room. Someone was sure to notice my absence and comment that the effort I was putting in to make dinner special was my way of saying, “My heart is there, but someone’s hands have to be here ... and I’m not cavorting around with you because soon hunger will strike and everyone will be clamouring for a meal. So, this is my offering, my way of participating ...”
Come dinnertime, however, the meal went by in silence again. Well, not exactly silence, because the mood of the moment had found its way to the dining room and everyone was at their witty best — making digs at each other and laughing uproariously.
When everyone had had their turn of being the butt of some joke or the other, it was my turn. And what could they come up with (given that I was so new to the fold that they hadn’t yet got a handle on my many foibles) — what could they come up with but my absence from the ‘action’ and my seeking refuge in the kitchen.
... No acknowledgement that if I hadn’t done that they probably wouldn’t have been laughing at all — and instead would have had to settle for the slim pickings of leftovers ...
Once again, I could only stare openmouthed. Words failed me. It seemed worse than the previous meal because now the fact that I had slaved over the stove was the source of their mirth ...
Admittedly, it was a rather rough initiation. But I have been ever grateful for it over the years. Because not looking for appreciation, freed me.
From being chained to the stove, I could now be a part of the fun. From trying to show I cared through the laborious preparation of three courses and a dessert, all I had to do was give my guests a hug and say, “I love you guys, I’m so happy you’re here! Let’s go out for lunch!”
Cheryl Rao is a journalist based in India.